Day 14 (still? Yes, still) Feeling: A little... little. Like I'm an insignificant speck in the world. [shouting at bottle of Remeron] Is this thing on?? Current mood music: "Mrs. Robinson" By Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, from "The Graduate" soundtrack and the album "Bookends" And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo) God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson Heaven holds a place for those who pray (Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey) We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files We'd like to help you learn to help yourself Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo) God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson Heaven holds a place for those who pray (Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey) Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes It's a little secret, just the Robinsons' affair Most of all, you've got to hide it from the kids Coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson Jesus loves you more than you will know (Wo, wo, wo) God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson Heaven holds a place for those who pray (Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey) Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon Going to the candidates debate Laugh about it, shout about it When you've got to choose Ev'ry way you look at it, you lose Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio A nation turns its lonely eyes to you (Woo, woo, woo) What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson Joltin' Joe has left and gone away (Hey, hey, hey...hey, hey, hey)

I was standing in line behind this guy at the check out in Albertsons just a few minutes ago. I studied him a little bit. He was about mid-forties, in slacks and a dress shirt. He must have left his tie in the car. I hate those things myself - Napoleon started the necktie. It was originally a disguised noose, to remind his officers of their fate should they go against him. (And we won't talk about buttons on coat sleeves, it's too repulsive.)

He's a little frumpy. He's got messed-up hair, like he runs his hands through it all the time. I identify. I do that when I'm doing something that I think I should be able to do, and it's giving me fits, like some quick one-off programming task or something hairy in Photoshop. He has a moth-eaten salt-and-pepper mustache, no beard, which looks okay on him. His skin is loose and folded for his age, like he's spent too many worried hours and sleepless nights.

Computer programmer, definitely. Professional card wholloper, actually, I figure. He works on big iron instead of something hip and new. He probably lives in that new yuppie subdivision out near 288, the reason they built this store here, and are building that Signature Krogers down where Cullen dead-ends into 518.

He didn't look happy; he looked like how I feel most of the time, actually: out-of-place and sad. He had this distant look in his eyes, staring at nothing, and on his face he looked like he was trying to repress everything inside from coming out, with this air of desperate detachment, as if his life was a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. I know that feeling oh-too-well.

He was buying all this ready-to-eat or instant microwave crap. Hungry Man microwave dinners. The cheap thin-crust frozen pizzas. Microwave breakfast burritos. Two-liter sodas and bottles of tea, already prepared. Plastic forks and paper plates and bowls. Two half-gallons of Blue Bell ice cream (French vanilla and mint chocolate chip).

He's buying magazines, too. Computer Shopper. Circuit Cellar Ink. The swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. I'd almost expect to see him holding 2600 and Technology Review if they carried them here.

I wondered what this guy's home life was like. He can't have kids because you can't feed kids this crap, not to mention he was obviously shopping for one. He must not have a wife - he's not wearing any rings. He's not even wearing a watch that I can see, although I see a chain coming out of his pants pocket, so he must have a pocketwatch. (Everybody has their fashion eccentricities.) When he opened his wallet to take out a crisp twenty (obviously banks out of an ATM, just like me) there were no pictures, no memories, nothing painful to carry with you everywhere.

Let's do the time warp again, I think to myself. This guy is me in fifteen years.

He groaned a little under the weight of his purchases (plastic, not paper). He wandered towards the door, looking as though he was ready for another day to be over, marking time until it was finally over.

restlessmind

Ancient history:

2013-03-01

"You'll be stone dead in a moment!"

2007-08-07

I covet fuck you money

2007-07-16

My own long, dark tea-time of the soul

2007-07-11

My internet experience is lacking

2007-07-10

Coincidence